Shop til You Drop Dead

I’m a guy who absolutely despises having to go shopping during this time of year. Whenever I choose to shop – no matter where I go – I’m reminded of a condition that’s been plaguing me for as long as I can remember. Let’s call it ‘Shoppers Eternity Disorder.’

Even at the supermarket, you can count on me to get behind the person paying the large bill with pocket change. Or, the customer who forgets that one elusive item and heads back to what seems like Australia to find it –returning with a mushroom from the salad bar whose absence would have certainly ruined his day.

Usually, though, it’s the person whose reply to the age-old question of ‘paper or plastic?’ involves some combination of bagging four items here with plastic, and two over there with paper. By the time that gets done, I’m checking to see how many expiration dates in my order have passed.

Recently, I had to make a trip to Costco to stock up on holiday items.

Remind me, hasn’t Costco been around for at least fifteen years? The way people react to it, you’d think the store just materialized out of thin air this morning.

Anyway, I make my way into the parking lot just before opening time, and the lot is already flooded with people jockeying for parking spots. When I finally find a space, roughly a quarter mile from the store, I begin the hunt for a shopping cart.

Which reminds me, I know you need a membership card to get in, but do you also need a driver’s license? I wonder because, as I stand at the store’s entrance, watching people line up their carts at the gate as if ready to start the Costco 500, I wasn’t sure if they were going to wave a checkered flag or simply open the door and let hell break loose.

Of course, the latter was the case, which prompted me to quickly place a call to State Farm, asking if they’d add grocery cart insurance to my policy.

No such luck.

Another issue I’d have thought I was beyond is what I like to call the “Am I Out of My Mind Syndrome” The experts call it “Costco Irrationalities.”

An example: “Wow! Ten thousand olives for only $15. I’d be stupid not to buy them!”

Then, upon returning home and greeting the wife, reality takes grip. “What are you going to do with ten thousand olives?”

Even worse is trying to justify your purchase, explaining the reasoning behind it while undoubtedly sounding a lot like Forrest Gump.

“Well, we can make olive bread; we can have olives on our pizza, olives on our salad…”

Forget it. Besides paper towels and bottled water, I can’t figure the place out.

I occasionally enjoy the Frosted Flakes boxes that look so enormous I half expect Tony the Tiger himself to leap out of them, urging me to buy them.

Of course, another Costco pitfall arrives at the end, when you’re provided those ridiculously-shaped boxes to package your goods. You always figure, you’re saving so much money by shopping here, who cares if I have to box the goods myself?

I’m sure people get a good kick out of watching me devise creative ways of cramming my ten thousand bottles of dishwashing detergent into an odd-shaped box that might even be missing a side.

And finally, pushing your overstuffed cart to the car completes your journey.

I always wonder how long it’ll be before we flip on the TV and see a breaking story out of the Costco parking lot – JOHN SMITH STRUCK BY SPEEDING CAR, MIRACULOUSLY UNINJURED AFTER LANDING ON ENORMOUS CACHE OF TOILET PAPER.

It’s just a matter of time, I figure. Until then, I have holiday shopping to do. Wish me luck…

FREE! ENLARGE YOUR UNDERSTANDING OF SPAM!

Is annoying computer Spam affecting the way we think?

After seeing the same pop-up ads each and every day, I have now gone from simply clicking delete without a second thought to thinking about each ad that’s sent… and therein lies a problem.

At first, I thought the advertisers were just targeting me. I was having the same ad pop up on my computer multiple times a day, letting me know the value of a home surveillance camera. The highlight of the ad is a beautiful, scantily-clad woman who is seductively caught on film with a caption above her: “Do you know what is going on in your house when you are away?” After a few days of seeing the ad I, started to wonder… home surveillance camera, not a bad idea! This is where I knew the advertisers had gotten me.

I guess I am worried that, if these ads keep popping up, I am going to have to go see a Spam psychologist, or attend Spam anonymous meetings -- surely they must exist by now.

The next ad that jumped out at me was, “Harmless ways to improve your bust line.” I guess I didn’t realize that this was the rage for guys these days. I could be the first guy on my block with an incredible bust line. Interesting in a strange way, but the more I thought about it the more I figured, I had better pass on that one.

Now, I’m starting to get ads popping up by the dozen for that wonder drug we keep seeing on TV -- you know, the one with the warning about what they call a possible side-effect that -- how shall we put it tastefully? – deals with a four-hour drawbridge that won’t go down… Doesn’t sound so good to me. “May cause a rash” -- that’s a side effect; “walking into a hospital with your own mini version of the Washington Monument for everyone to inspect” -- to me, that’s more than a side effect. I always wish I had a friend who’s an ER doctor, because that must be quite a scene, when these unfortunate people with the mild-side effects that may occur come limping in…..

Then there are the ads that make all other ads look like kids play -- the guys know what I am talking about. Proven enlargement for men, Add 1-3” safely. You start to wonder, is someone watching me? Why is the computer constantly sending me these ads? Does it know something?

However, when we get to the point where we can completely block computer spam, I wonder if it will just take another form. Maybe years from now, the computer will just speak up and say, “Excuse me, don’t mean to interrupt your typing. I just wanted to let you know you might want to think about adding a little hair in the back; you’re getting kinda thin. Oh, and by the way, your wife was telling me the other day, I don’t know how to tell you this but …..”

short double decaf express latte cappuccino with ice and a twist

I am starting to believe that in today’s high tech society we are given too many choices with just about everything we do. Time and technology are moving at such a pace, I wonder if I am the only person who is having trouble trying to keep up with all of the changes.

The other morning I walked into a well-known Bethesda coffee shop to grab a quick cup of coffee with my father-in-law. This seemed simple enough. When I asked him for his order, he responded with, “Short decaf double latte cappuccino with a twist.” To my surprise, he was not insulting my short stature in some strange language, but was actually ordering a coffee drink. Apparently there is no such thing as ordering a large black coffee these days - you must have choices.

A whole secret coffee society exists where each drink has to have at least 10 ingredients, lots of weird names, and your voice changing several octaves as you place your order. When I finally began to figure out how this worked, I stepped up to the counter and nervously placed my order. The coffee specialist seemed unimpressed, but translated and relayed it to the coffeeologist who actually prepares your concoction. I don’t remember seeing this advanced field of study offered at my college, but it must exist as there is no way to know what anyone is talking about without a deep rooted understanding of this odd language. After paying what seemed like $20 for the drink and the experience, I decided to continue on with my day and get the car washed.

These days no one actually washes your car - everything is automated to give you control and choices. As I stood at the pump reading the vast array of specials, I wondered when a car wash became so complicated. Each wash had its own fancy name, which I wasn’t sure how it related to getting my car clean. Did I want the Washingtonian, the Presidential, or the Orioles Special? The choices were endless. Wasn’t the Orioles Special on my windshield the reason why I was getting the car washed in the first place?
By the time I got through the automated system, I had to go inside and get what they call “the secret code.” This would allow me to actually enter the car wash. As I walked out the door, I wondered if I should I be looking over my shoulder to ensure that no one was attempting to steal my secret code.

The day was only half over and already I had my first happy frappe coffee drink and the O’s Special car wash. I was starting to feel like the master of new technology. I figured let’s go ahead and order the new computer I wanted. Friends said, “Why go to the computer store - that’s how things were done in the past. You call up on the phone, order it, and it gets delivered.” So when I called the master computer technician, he told me that I could design my own system. This is the new way - fast and efficient, no hassle, and choices, many choices.

After about a half hour of going through terms I had never heard of, I simply asked, “With all of the technology and choices you have, just send me a computer that I don’t have to turn off and on every time something goes wrong. You must be able to construct me one of those.” It was hard for me to believe, but apparently it still doesn’t exist.

I sat back and remembered the days not too long ago where you got a quick cup of coffee with milk and sugar and when some people got upset because the guys drying their cars left a few streaks. It wasn’t long ago either when going to buy a computer meant visiting a store, learning all there was to know, and then trying to fit it in the car to drag home.
With everything changing so fast and with all of these choices, I am just trying to take things one step at a time. Hopefully, by next week, I will be up for trying the self-serve checkout at the grocery store.

A Gift For Shopping

Gift buying has always been a problem for me. You never want to give a gift certificate -- even though most people love them -- because it supposedly indicates a deficiency of thought. But I guarantee you, most people who’ve received well-thought out gifts from me would certainly agree… a gift certificate would have been better.

When I go to the mall in search of a gift, I usually end up walking around like a confused child who’s been separated from his mother. And I see other guys with the same look – stricken by the same uncertainty, nodding at me, as if to reassure me that we’re all in the same boat.

And every time, after hours of searching – and I don’t know if it’s pure exhaustion or the mental collapse that comes from wolfing down five cinnebuns – I always end up with the most ridiculous item imaginable. And always, it seems like a good idea at the time.

My friends mock me to this day because, growing up, my mom would receive the worst possible gifts from me, all the while assuring me how much she loved them and how useful they were. Of course, she was just being nice.

I got her everything – from the salad shooter to the hot topper; the former being a device that hydraulically propelled tomatoes across the kitchen, in hopes of landing them on a salad. The hot topper, you don’t even want to know what that was.

Then there were the Swedish Massage slippers that my mom described to me as “wonderful” and to my dad as “sinking”, as in, “I feel like I’m sinking.”

“Wonderful” and “sinking” don’t really go together, Mom.

I thought the jewelry cleaner would be the ultimate gift. Using ultrasonic rays to clean your rings and watches, it would be both fun to use AND effective. Only problem is, whenever I stop by my parents’ house, the machine is sitting in a box in the garage.

Of course, they assure me they love the gift, but its location in the house seems to betray the fact that they love it about as much as the paint thinner, or the recycling bin (where it’ll probably soon end up…).

For my grandmother, I found the most beautiful waterfall sculpture in the mall. The salesman assured me how great it was, neglecting to inform me that the constant sound of rushing water would not only relax your mind, but your bladder as well. Not the ideal gift for an older grandmother.

Years ago, before my wife and I were married, her birthday came around, and I decided to get creative. To my surprise, after the event, she still agreed to marry me.

Anyway, to mark the occasion, I obtained a large box which I expected to contain a bonsai tree. Not having any experience in botany beyond calling Bethesda Florist whenever I mess something up, I figured I had found the world’s greatest gift.

Unfortunately, the box didn’t contain an actual bonsai tree. Rather, some seeds were enclosed, along with a whole lot of dirt, and a certificate awarding its recipient an already-grown bonsai tree. Talk about a fun gift.

Last year, I mortgaged the house to buy a complicated massage chair replete with a foot and back massager. In the store, I was heard to remark how much use it would get, how someone would be sitting in that thing every day. A year later, it’s been used about as much as my long-term gym membership. Or that pool table we use as an actual table.

Some stores are so unique that you can’t help but buy something from them, even if you’re sure you don’t need what they’re selling. Illuminations, for example, is a store in the mall in which three thousand candles are constantly burning. How could you not want to buy something from there? I always wonder why that place hasn’t ever burned down. With all those scented candles, it would probably be a really delightful-smelling fire.

When you a buy a candle from the place, you imagine all the gushing comments at the dinner table from guests who’ll wonder where you found such enchanting candles. “Isn’t he thoughtful?” they’ll say. Of course, the reality is somewhat different when you discover the dog likes them, too, and as you’re walking around the neighborhood at 3 in the morning with your sick dog, you realize maybe those peach candles weren’t such a great idea…

I always say, this year it’s gift certificates for all. However, guilt will likely set in, and you’ll know it when you see me aimlessly trolling the mall, searching in vain for something somebody will appreciate. So, do me a favor. When you bump into me at the end of a long day of searching, and I’m carrying around some hideous talking statue with a big grin on my face, remind me that I haven’t yet found the Holy Grail of gifts. Thanks. And happy holidays.

Improving my Barb-I.Q.

When did buying a grill become such an adventure? The 4th of July was here, we invited family and friends over for a barbecue, and then the realization hit: I need buy a grill. Memories of standing around a small metal grill, throwing in some charcoal and lighter fluid with a match to get things going, are gone. Apparently, this is the century of heavy steel, mega burners, and vast tool kits containing barbecue accessories, and the source of the cooking itself -- propane.

What a shock for me, when I walked into the store and saw rows of grills that seemed to have every feature available and a language of their own. There were grills that were so big they had storage cabinets underneath which, to this day, I can’t figure out if they include a guy who lives underneath the grill and pops out when you’re ready to eat. As expensive as many were, that didn’t seem that far-fetched.

Luckily for me, they have guys at these stores who can provide all the necessary (or, useless) advice I need to select a grill. “I see you’re looking at the Burger Pro 2000. Nice, but it’s only got 22,000 BTUs. You might want to consider this beauty over here – four burners and 46,000 BTUs.”

First of all, I didn’t know if BTUs referred to the grill’s cooking capacity or if it was just an elaborate inside joke developed by the employees to fool amateur grillers who haplessly ventured into their store. I mean, what are people cooking these days, anyway? I was planning on hotdogs and hamburgers, not dinosaurs. Why would I need so many BTUs?

After buying the grill, a sense of relief washed over me until I realized step two was putting the thing together. Now, I’ve put lots of things together in my life – poorly, of course, and usually with leftover pieces and bolts falling out after I’m done. But inept construction doesn’t matter much when assembling a desk or a chair. The stakes are a lot higher when a propane tank is involved.

Opening the manual itself was a daunting task – nine pages of warnings and threats, which I read and re-read, before concluding there was no way on earth I’d use a grill assembled by me. I wondered why we don’t see warnings on TV about these things – forget blowing off your hand with illegal fireworks; what about blowing up your house with a grill?

So, as always, I had to pay Barbecue Ed to come in and check my assembly and rebuild the grill from start to finish.

However, I would think on July 5th I should be able to walk down the street and be able to tell who was a first-time griller, like myself. Maybe see a few guys with singed eyebrows and hypothesize that they have a basic two-burner grill. Guys missing their eyebrows and some hair, I’d guess four-burner, heavy on the BTUs.

As I flipped the burgers like an old pro, and my guests complemented me on the grills chrome finish, I truly felt like Mr. Barbecue. As the night wound down I began to understand why people are so passionate about grilling. Now if I can just get someone to show me how to get the cover on I might be ready for the 6-burner.

Bridging the Golf Between Us

After my second beginner golf lesson, John Hafera, the PGA Professional whom I have been taking lessons with at the Waters Landing Golf Park in Germantown, mentioned the importance of ‘positive thought’ in my game, as I usually tended to dwell on the negative.

I still felt very out of place, and figured maybe getting myself some state-of- the-art equipment might help. Technology has changed at a dramatic pace, and maybe the game would come easier with all the advances. With my clubs, I was essentially showing up to the course to play golf as if someone in tennis walked out of the 70’s and onto a tennis court in 2004 -- taking their wooden racket out of the press and saying, lets play!

The more I thought about it, the more it made sense -- maybe I could actually rattle my playing partners who didn’t know of my deficient game. Much like in tennis -- when you show up for a match with ten rackets and a bag that’s big enough to hold a small adult – the intimidation factor is always important. I figured I would do my research and get the clubs with the biggest, baddest sounding names -- right down to the golf balls.

I decided on the King Cobra 414 Comp Driver -- can’t get much tougher than that, although MacGregor had a V-Foil M-38 Eye-O-Matic Driver that sounded, well… interesting? I wasn’t sure if it could be driven, flown into enemy territory, or used to check your eye site.

I decided the Cleveland Launcher fairway woods sounded like a good choice, and the Nike Air Slingshot Bag. Got the Titalist Players glove, since I was now going to be a player -- or at least look like one.

The hardest part of the selection process was when it came to the balls. The choice: the Callaway Warbirds or the Slazenger Money Balls. I decided on the Money Balls. They would sound cooler when my partners search for my balls in the woods. “Yeah, I’m playing Money Balls.”

To seal the deal, I found the Never Compromise VooDoo Putter… how uncomfortable would that make my partners feel? “Everyone clear the green! Mark’s pulling out the VooDoo Putter!”

Well, I took all my new equipment and headed to lesson number three. I changed into my new Adidas ClimaCool Sligngback golf shoes in the parking lot, like all the cool players do, and headed to my lesson.

Apparently, there was one thing in this whole process I had neglected to think about: I still had to actually swing the club. Some of my shots felt more comfortable, but I can’t say the loan I had to take out at the bank to purchase my arsenal was necessary. As expensive as golf equipment is, I’m surprised they haven’t started selling alarms on golf bags. Maybe that’s next.

This lesson, we worked mainly on my short game, and I was still having problems doing too much with the wrists. In tennis, there are areas of the game that you may not be the strongest in, but you can hide those weaknesses by flourishing in others.
Some players are masters from the baseline, others are strictly good serve and volleyers.

In golf, though, you never hear people say, “well, he’s good with the six-iron; can’t drive, can’t chip, can’t putt – but sure can use that six!”

Boy, do I have a ways to go in this whole process of learning golf. The mastery of each club is so important, as I’m finding out.
John gave me a list of drills and exercises to work on at home, to continue my journey. Hopefully, in a few weeks, I’ll be ready to hit the course for the first real time.

Well, at least I’ll look ready. Playing well may be another thing.

Snap, Crackle... was that a POP?

Having used my long-term prepaid gym membership about three times in the last three years, I decided it was finally time I try something new to get back in shape.

But, what should I try?

As I scanned through endless channels on my TV in search of something interesting to watch, I came across ultimate fighting. Perhaps you’ve seen it. Two combatants (crazy men) step into a cage and test their skills against each other with the only rules being, no eye gouging or groin kicks. The winner is basically determined when one opponent “taps out” (submits) or passes out.

I walked into the Karate Zone in Germantown where I had seen they offered classes in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, which focuses on real street fighting situations and self defense. It assumes that, in a real-life situation, the fight will often end up on the ground, and so it teaches techniques for controlling the situation.

I talked with the instructor, told him I was a tennis player. He told me he also played tennis, and that tennis was actually harder on the body than Jui-Jitsu. Somehow, the thought of playing tennis against a 200-pound guy was one thing, but having him pound me into a mat was another thing altogether...

I was given the “Gi” (uniform), which consisted of some drawstring pants, a jacket and white belt to keep it all together. Worst case, I figured, if I lasted as long in Jui-Jitsu as I did at the gym, the Gi could double as a bathrobe around the house.

The good thing was, the Karate zone sits in a shopping center near my cleaners and a CVS pharmacy… logical thinking, again -- short walk to get the blood off my Gi and I could pick up my pain meds at the pharmacy when I got my arm snapped in half.

The goal I had set for myself before beginning would be that one year from this date I would walk down the mean streets of Gaithersburg, with money hanging from my pockets, just looking to get mugged so I could test out my new skills.

A few days later, it was time for the first class and I rushed into the Karate Zone a few minutes late while many of the students were already involved in warm-ups. I ran into the changing room and pulled my Gi from the bag for the first time. As I darted out to the mat, the instructor looked me over and said, “Mark, you have your pants on backwards.”

Back to the dressing room I went, wishing there was a back door to crawl out of. No such luck. While an embarrassing experience, it got me my nickname from day one -- perhaps not the one every warrior would strive for, but a nickname nonetheless: I would be known as Mark the “POB” Dragon. The POB means, Pants on Backwards.

After the first day of class, I thought back to the cliché “If it ain’t broke don’t fix it,” and realized a more apt saying would be “If it ain’t broke, let’s break it.” I learned a series of arm locks, leg locks and chokes.
Learning this new skill was humbling, yet exciting, at the same time.

How many times before a shower had I thrown a few fake punches at the mirror while thinking, “Mike Tyson has nothing on me!” In real life, when it was time to spar, it was more difficult than I thought. The dynamics that made me the pre-shower champ of my bathroom had changed dramatically when my opponent on the other end was landing punches to my head at will.

After a few weeks of classes, I really began to enjoy the training and noticed a definite difference in my physique. A few weeks ago, the instructor told me I should come to the seminar with Royce Gracie, who I learned was much like the Agassi or Tiger Woods of Jiu-Jitsu.

I was a little nervous about attending, since I still was a neophyte to the sport, but with encouragement I made the plunge. During the seminar, Royce taught us many new techniques and takedowns. A few times after getting taken to the mat, I had to make sure my kidneys and other various organs were still on the inside of my body, but I was having a great time.

Of course, at the end I was able to get a picture with the legend, which I sent to my friends saying, ‘notice the blood on Royce’s Gi, see what happens when you mess with the POB Dragon.’ Of course, in reality, Royce in his sleep could have tied my body in a pretzel and left me on the mat where I would still be now if he hadn’t decided to let me out.

The truth of the matter is, I have never had a better workout in any sport, and the techniques I’ve learned sadly do come in handy in today’s society. The people I have met at the Karate Zone have been great and patient and I am going to keep pursuing this.

It may still be a few years off, but I can only hope one day I’ll walk down the street and hear people whispering, “Hey isn’t that the POB Dragon?”

Another Swing

When I last left you, I had just finished my first golf lesson, and was pumped up and ready to continue my quest to learn golf. John Hafera, the PGA Professional with whom I’m taking lessons at the Waters Landing Golf Park in Germantown, suggested after our last lesson that I work on swinging the club, sans ball. I tried not to take that the wrong way – sure it was standard advice for a beginner, and not an implication that I was a threat to myself or others.

I headed out to the backyard and went through my swing, which surely must have stirred my neighbors into thinking I had mistakenly eaten a strange mushroom while gardening.

I thought things were going well, until the yard began to look like someone had driven through it with a bulldozer. When my wife got home and inquired about it, I told her the only thing that seemed logical: some teenagers must’ve been joyriding, and driven through it last night – they really tore up that lawn!

I headed to the driving range, where I made my first observation: the driving range is a lot like a gym, in that you start to recognize people by their strengths and weaknesses.

At the gym, you look over and see the guy who always lifts so much he might as well be lifting your car – his arms alone are as big as your tires.

At the driving range, there’s the guy I take only quick glances of, admiring the impressive swoosh of his ball as it travels a distance so far, I’d need binoculars to see it.

Then, at the gym, there’s always the one guy who runs around from machine to machine as quickly as he can, as if he’s vying for the record of world’s fastest workout. Everyone stays out of his way, until he drops his weights to the floor and all attention is completely fixed on him.

Similarly, I’ve discovered a way to get sixty people on the range to stop what they’re doing and look my way – by hitting a shot that ricochets off the dividers in between players.

Then, you have other similar types: the guy who stretches for six hours before lifting a weight or hitting a ball; the guy who sweats so much you’re afraid he’s going to pass out; and my favorite, the advisor, who takes it upon himself to assist you (unasked), by showing you everything he knows about golf.

Last, but not least, you have the “unique dresser,” the guy who wears the black socks to the gym or range, or worse, a dress shirt – looking like they lost their luggage at the airport before arriving at the driving range for a workout they couldn’t miss.

It was finally time for lesson #2, and I was ready to go. I had watched the videotape of my swing, given to me by John. While I thought the tape was the greatest, apparently it’s not the kind of thing you invite family and friends over to watch. What was neat, though, was that John’s comments were right on the tape as well, indicating what areas of my swing I would need to work on.

This time, we worked on gripping the club, and I took a few swings. What a difference! Not only was I finally hitting the ball, but it felt great. John then tried to get me to relax and let the swing come naturally, and it worked. We then sat down and compared the first and second weeks’ lessons, and I was even more motivated to continue.

I’ve got another week before my third lesson, and I intend to practice and see how much progress I can make. This week, I’m anxious to head to the range and confident I will not be the guy who brings the place to a standstill as he shanks the balls into the barrier.

Maybe, though, I’ll show up in black socks… just for fun.


The Quest to Learn Golf – to be continued.

the scoop on poop

Many have said, you can tell a lot about a person’s character after having joined them for a friendly round of golf. I think I’ve discovered another less traditional way, and after much diligent research, I think I might be onto something.

It might sound crazy, but hear me out:

YOU CAN TELL A LOT ABOUT A PERSON BY HOW THEY PICK UP AFTER THEIR DOG.

Working from home, I have toured endlessly around the neighborhood at every hour of the day. Each and every day I see the same people walking their pets and while I don’t think my research will win me a Noble Prize, upon making a few comparisons I have been able to make some interesting observations…

See if they hold true in your neighborhood:

The first clue is always the leash. You have what I call your Circus Baggers. These are the people who have enough plastic newspaper bags tied around their leash to make you wonder if they own a dog or an elephant. Often, you worry before a storm that a gust of wind will propel them into the air down the street. Perhaps a new warning should be added to the bag, along with the old “NOT A TOY, DO NOT PLACE OVER YOUR HEAD.”

How about “TYING EXCESSIVE BAGS TO LEASH MAY RESULT IN YOU AND YOUR POOCH FLYING AWAY”

Traits of the Circus Baggers…

Excessive excitement about the arrival of the newspaper, especially on Sunday, when they know they’ll receive an extra bag with their circulars.

Often have very small dogs with cutsy names that they carry as much as walk.

Others carry enough supplies with them that you are not quite sure if they are walking the dog or are about to set up camp on your front lawn.

The Poop Scene Investigators…

Often, the dog takes a daily liking to my tree, rendering a positive ID: ah yes, the “Poop scene investigators.”

These folks tend to also spend 20 minutes at a time at the scene of the crime, exhaustively removing all evidence. Sometimes I wonder if they might cordon off the area with yellow crime scene tape.

Traits of the Poop Scene Investigator…

Their lawns are perfectly green, manicured like a golf course with no brown spots, because their dog uses YOUR lawn. Often, the dogs are medium-sized with more identification tags around their neck than you carry in your wallet.

The next type is known as the “Singler.” They are identified by the single bag on the leash and after that initial and only bag is gone they can characterized by a mad sprint home, dragging the dog behind them before the unimaginable happens…

Traits of the Singler…

Often leaves tools outside of the house like a lawnmower that runs out of gas and they forgot to get gas, for days. They come to play tennis with one racket, knowing their strings will break and they will ask to borrow one of yours. On the golf course, they show up to play and then realize they don’t have their collared shirt. “Can I borrow one?”

Often have dogs that are larger and quite hyper and have worried looks that seem to say, I hope he remembered to pick up dog food for me…

The next kind is the “poopafakers.” They do exist if you watch carefully. They carry a bag, or in some cases multiple bags on the leash, but here’s the catch: Upon closer examination, the bags either remain on the leash at all times or occasionally if they realize someone is watching, they actually remove the bag from the leash and pretend to pick up before retying the bag to the leash. When I asked my neighbor how he still had a plastic bag attached to his leash that read Hechingers, he knew he was caught.

Traits of a Poopafaker…

Shows up to play tennis and reaches into the bag as if to supply the balls which he realized are still at home. “I will bring next week!” he exclaims, just like last week. On the golf course, you catch him giving his ball a gentle kick out of the rough when he thinks your head is turned.

Finally, the boldest of them all -- the “Renegade Walkers,” the kind who walk their dog with no bags period.
The type who make no effort to clean up, often with the look of, “Are you going to say something to me?”

Traits of the Renegade…

Often has a lawn that is overgrown with no intentions of cutting it.

Often has a huge dog who leaps on whoever walks by.

While playing tennis, often has trouble remembering the correct score and in golf the score card he turns in at the end of the day somehow is not what you remember.

Now if I can only come up with a mathematical formula for my important research… Maybe the Noble Prize is not that far away?

The Golfmare

“Oh, it was just a bad dream!”

Here I was at 3 a.m… the morning of my first golf lesson, having just woken up from what can only be described as a golf nightmare.

I had dreamt that when I showed up at the range for my first lesson, they gave me a bright orange vest to wear that said, “Student Golfer: Please stay back 50 yards.” It was much like when I used to snicker as I passed a car with the bumper sticker that says “My Child is a rookie driver, call 888-999-9999 if you see him driving erratically” and thought: poor kid; glad they didn’t have those when I started driving…

I headed up to the range where I met up with the man who would hopefully make me fairly proficient -- or at least remove the grave danger to myself or fellow golfers when I began swinging a club. PGA Professional John Hafera had come highly recommended, and would be challenged as he knew I was going to be reporting on my progress. Unlike the owner of a barbecue restaurant who feels worried when a vegetarian restaurant reviewer shows up to write a review of his place, John seemed ready and confident.

As we began to walk over to the tee, sans the orange vest, which was a relief,
I knew how those beginners who I had given tennis lessons to all those years had felt. Especially when they said, “Do we have to play next to ‘so and so,’ I know I will hit the balls on their court.” I used to say, “Don’t worry, if a ball goes on their court, no big deal,” all the while thinking, ‘if they hit the balls onto the court next to us no big deal, just please don’t hit it over the fence into traffic…’

Now, the stakes were a little higher than tennis; one bad swing and I would be known forever as the guy who embedded a golf ball in the back of someone else’s head. That can’t be a good way to start your journey into golf.

I scheduled my lesson during the week – right when the course opens – to avoid what happened last time, when my father-in-law tried to teach me. He actually had me say, out loud, before each swing, “THIS IS MY TENNIS SWING,” in an attempt to demonstrate to me that the two were somehow intertwined.

Now, I don’t know enough about golf to know if that’s true or not, but I do know enough about golfers to decipher the critical looks and comments I received when exclaiming “THIS IS MY TENNIS SWING” at ninety decibels before swinging at (and missing) my golf ball. Needless to say, it doesn’t go over so well.

John had me take a few warm-up swings with the 7-iron – the only club I had ever used – while he filmed my efforts for later review.

We then dumped my clubs out of the box they had arrived in so that he could enlighten me as to the necessity of each one.

Apparently, unlike in tennis, a golfer must be proficient in using all clubs.

Having no previous knowledge of golf, I let John patiently take me through the basics of gripping the club, learning basic terms, and understanding the elements that make a successful golfer.

I actually learned an incredible amount.

We then sat down at the computer and John, like many of the other pros today, is able to let you view your swing on video, show you the good, and what in the world you are doing. He can then compare you with other golfers through the use of a split-screen view.

Seeing you swing on video for the first time is an eye-opening experience. Not that I thought my swing was anything masterful, if it wasn’t for the club in my hand I would have thought I was reacting to getting stung by a large bee with my feet firmly encased in bricks of cement.

The other thing that I find interesting is that the other golfer they always pull up on the split screen is Tiger Woods, so you can see how your swing compares to his. “What differences do you see?” I wondered what would happen if I said to John, “You know, I see how Tiger’s and my swing differ dramatically but, you know, I think mine is just a lot more interesting.” Then, I wondered whose swing they pulled up on Tiger’s split screen for him to view?

The hour flew by and I left with a video tape of my swing in hand, a few things to work on before my next lesson, and the one direct order, “Get a bag for your clubs, you can’t carry them around in a box.” For the first time, I felt a real excitement for golf. Off to the bookstore to proudly pick up Golf for Dummies, and then out to the range to practice and prepare for lesson number 2.

Travel Frazzle

Last week, I traveled to beautiful San Diego. To most, that would signify a great, relaxing time. However, I am one who constantly has things happen to them when they travel. Once I’m there, no problem. Getting there… that’s where my life becomes like the movie Planes, Trains & Automobiles. Something always goes wrong.

I was to fly out on Wednesday July 7 at 7:30 p.m. on Southwest Airlines.

I arrived early at BWI and checked in record time -- no lines, no problems… was my luck finally changing?

As I made my way through security and into the terminal, the skies darkened and it began to rain like I had never seen. Thunder, lightning… planes were no longer visible on the runway and an eerie silence hovered throughout the terminal.

Ah, my famous touch again.

I decided to grab a bite since surely I was in for a long night ahead. So, I headed over to the only area that was not packed, the hot dog stand. You can’t order a regular hot dog anymore, they all have fancy names. There’s the Happy Dog, Big Dog, Lucky Dog… I was just hoping for the thoroughly-cooked dog, and then headed over to the bar to join the fun.

We keep hearing on the news about people getting excessively drunk on planes and we ask, why? Yet, when you walk up to the bar and ask for a drink, the response from the bartender is always: “For $2 more you can have a double.” I said, “Why not?” figuring the pilot was probably not going to be needing my assistance operating the aircraft.

Upon finishing my double Scotch on the rocks, I swaggered back to the gate to check on the status. “Looks like 10:30 p.m. the attendant said over the mike, plane is still in Chicago.”

The airport is a place where you can see so much going on, make many observations and is probably one of the greatest places to watch people. People with happy reunions, sad departures, and people who go nuts. Clearly, with a storm this bad there are bound to be delays, but for many it was like they were oblivious to what was going on outside.

The news shows were documenting the cars that were floating away from this flash storm in Baltimore. However, people were hollering at the Southwest worker wanting to know why is the plane was not here. For those who have ever worked at a tennis or golf club, this reminded me of the people who would call during monsoon rains and ask, “Are the outdoor courts or golf course playable?”

Well, it’s 9:30p.m.and still an hour to go, and people start lining up at the gate in the A B and C boarding rows to board the plane which has not arrived. Another thing I have never understood: Southewest has open seating, so when you get on the plane you can sit wherever you want. If you’re a single traveler and are first on the airplane -- sure, you can pick any seat you want, but you are still going to have some stranger like myself next to you. For a single traveler, having boarding pass number 10 or 100 is irrelevant.

Finally, we boarded the plane which had just arrived and I settled into my seat next to an older lady who looked tired. “Will you do me a favor and wake me when they bring by the peanuts?” Yes m’am Have you ever noticed how on an airplane the smallest things in your normal life become so much more important? Can you imagine at home, “Dear, can you bring me a bag of those four honey roasted peanuts? I feel like a snack.” On an airplane, are they really worth being woken up for?

You also realize how many people have strange drinking habits. When the flight attendant comes around to take your order, you hear people making concoctions with sodas you didn’t know existed. Could you give me five ice cubes, tomato juice and a quarter cup of sprite? What is that about!?

It sure felt like we were sitting on the runway a while when an announcement was made…”Lldies and gentlemen, I have to apologize but the pilots who are flying this leg of the trip have not gotten into the airport yet. Their flight in was delayed. Don’t worry, they should be here in another 15 or 20 minutes, will do their flight check and we will be ready to go in about 30 minutes.”

That is not a good feeling!

The rest of the trip was uneventful. Complimentary drinks from the attendants to keep all happy, my seatmate got her six peanuts and was in heaven, and I arrived in San Diego at around 2:30 a.m.

All in all, another one of my patented great trips. Just do yourself a favor, if you ever see that you’re on the same flight as me, change planes. You will be glad you did.

Dental Woes of a Candy Addict

I like my dentist, but absolutely hate having to go see him. The problem is I have terrible teeth caused by eating every type of sugar known to man. That, and a place called 7-11 that seems unavoidable to me. My candy addiction has become so bad that I actually have to vary my 7-11s or risk experiencing the humiliation of walking into the place with a friend -- or, God forbid, my wife! -- and hearing the counter guy call me by my first name. Never a good sign.

Throughout the years, I’ve eaten large quantities of every weird candy invented by man.
I chew so much gum I sometimes think I could have made myself a very rich man – if I had bought some stock in Wrigley’s a few years ago.

Of course, like other foolish people, when the dentist asks me if I eat a lot of candy, my response has always been to lie. “Not too much,” I tell him. “And I only chew sugarless gum.”

I think he’d sooner believe I quit my office job to become a tight rope walker, because I like the feeling of living on the edge.

These days, I’m as much a regular there as I am at the 7-11, and I sometimes feel my dentist looking at me with glee when I walk through his door. After all, I’m probably putting his kids through summer camp this year. It’s gotten so bad I sometimes feel like asking how his older daughter enjoyed the prom – knowing I probably paid for the limo.

During my lengthy visits, I tend to make several observations about the office as well.

Why does the dentist always has more magazines than a newsstand?

And people who say sitting around in one of those paper robes while at the doctor’s office makes them feel vulnerable – what about the bib a dentist makes you wear? Talk about vulnerability.

I have a relative -- who I’ll call Nana --who actually took the little dental clips used to hold that bib around your neck. One night out, during dinner, Nana whipped them out of her purse and exclaimed, “Look what I have! These are great for dinner,” before fastening a napkin securely around her neck, much to my astonishment.

Ever since then, when asked out to dinner by my resourceful Nana, I always insist on takeout.

And what about the whole tooth repair procedure itself?

Ever wonder why, as the seventeen shots of Novocain are finally taking effect, the dental staff starts talking to you about how your career is going?

Then they make you play what seems like a game inspired by a twisted country fair: rinse your mouth in the tiny sink – the one that’s roughly the size of a quarter – while your entire mouth is still numb from the operation.

A hidden camera would be great. I’m sure the dental staff enjoys a good laugh after I leave.

The procedure itself is never fun, and why someone hasn’t thought of a way to make a drill that is neither called a drill, looks like a drill, or sounds like a drill, I will never understand. I know the kind of damage I can wreak with a drill when I’m trying to fix things around my house – I don’t need the association while I’m strapped and bibbed in that dentist chair.

The other issue I have with my dentist and doctors is that they always want to talk about tennis with me -- my prior profession. The problem is, I always hear something like, ‘Well, how attached are you to your front teeth? I think we need to remove—oh yeah! Do you think I can improve my forehand by watching Agassi on TV?’

Of course, when scheduling your appointment more than a week in advance, you forget not to schedule other important appointments on the same day. So then it’s off to the big meeting, where you’re barely able to speak coherently for the Novacain not yet wearing off.

I’m afraid as often as I go to the dentist, one day I’ll return home to find a group of friends staging an intervention for me, thinking I’m on some kind of drugs.

“John saw you at the mall last week and said you were barely understandable.”

I was thinking of trying sedation dentistry, but I’m afraid I might wake up with a whole new set of teeth and then, as I head to the desk to check-out, find out I just bought the dentist’s son a new car.

Maybe I’ll look into a support group. Candy Eaters Anonymous, I need help. Or maybe I’ll just start one myself. After all, it’s not like I’ll ever be able to rid the country of my worst temptation, 7-11.

In fact, at the rate I’m going, it’s a good bet 7-11 will be around long after my teeth.

Code Overload

Codes, codes, and more codes -- I’m fed up! Get into your house? You need The Code. Need more money? You must know The Code. Surf the net? You’d better know The Code. And worst of all, you’d better remember which Code it is you need to know.

This week I had an experience I knew was bound to happen at some point. It reminded me of the old Dudley Moore movie, Arthur, in which a man gets shut entirely out of the life he knows. I’ve been considering what life will be like in a few years, and it’s becoming a scary proposition.

Anyway, I went to pick up my car from the shop, where I left it to have the brakes replaced. As I was pulling out of the lot, I flipped on the radio, as is my habit, and noticed something happening: nothing. I looked down at the radio, perplexed, and saw the word “CODE” flash across the screen. Having no clue what it meant, I called the garage as soon as I made it home.

“Well, when we unhooked the battery, it disconnected the radio,” they told me. “Just punch in your code and the radio will reset.”

What code?

That’s when I heard the words I always feared from the other end: “You don’t know the code?”

Apparently, I have a theft-deterrent radio, which means the device can’t be used once it’s been detached from my vehicle, unless the detacher knows its pass code.

So, what can I do to make it believe it’s safe and sound in my car?

The radio has to be pulled out again, checked for a serial number, and reported back to Acura so that they can provide me the missing code. Oh, and it’ll cost me $100.

So I drove around a few days, trying in vain to guess the code myself – pushing random numbers at stoplights, intent on cracking the code.

You guessed it: I’m no master code cracker and, $100 later, the radio is working, no thanks to me, and I have some good advice to keep in mind: put the code in a safe place.

A few days later, I was at an ATM machine, spacing out, when I punched in the wrong code a few times. Before I knew it, my card wasn’t coming back – and I thought I heard some shredding sounds inside the machine. Apparently, I had experienced yet another safety feature meant to deter theft.

In order to get a new card sent, I had to answer more questions than a contestant on Jeopardy. Over the phone, I was given a few stumpers which actually turned out to be a good test for me.

Wife’s mother’s maiden name? Wife’s birthdate? That one actually helped a lot – who thought forgetting a code would actually be a good reminder about an upcoming birthday? When I asked for a reminder call next year -- same time, same bank -- they didn’t seem too pleased with me, and ended the call with more sage advice: keep your code in a safe place.

Internet codes amaze me the most. What’s the deal? After filling out an endless stream of paperwork to access a site, it’s finally time to create a username and password. By this point, I’m so exasperated I make one up that’s beyond crazy.

Then comes the shocker: it’s taken.

I sometimes wonder who, besides me, would create such an utterly ridiculous combination of username and password? Do I have a long-lost twin my parents never told me about?

Let me also be the first to warn you against using your pets’ names as a code. I had a friend who used to get weepy every time she went to the ATM machine because her code, “TIGER,” reminded her of her pet’s untimely death. Who’d have thought going to the bank would hurt more than just your pocketbook?

From what I hear, it’s easy for criminals to easily obtain our codes, so I’ll probably be the first guy who drives into a bad neighborhood, looking for trouble, just to see if some criminal can help me figure out my forgotten code.

If you’re looking to get involved in a great business, I suggest code-hacking. I’m sure they’ll soon become a legitimate and lucrative service. Advanced degrees in Code Cracking will be held in high esteem by tomorrow’s society.

I can hear people talking already… “Steven just got his doctorate in Hacking from Harvard! He’s doing his residency at Fort Knox! Amazing!”

I’m thinking about closing all my accounts and just burying my money in the backyard, like in the good old days. With my luck, though, I’d probably forget where I buried it, and realize maybe codes aren’t my problem, after all…

Lucky Pets... Crazy Owners!

Are we going absolutely overboard in caring for our pets these days?

This struck me after I posed another, even more incredible question: What games does Storm like to play? Storm is a Labrador retriever, and the idea that he might somehow hold preference to a particular form of entertainment should have been enough for me. But the dean of admissions at this school for dogs insisted on an answer.

Storm and I had come fully prepared for the meeting, attempting to pass the stringent interview so my pal could attend doggie day care and I could pay handsomely. As the experts say, a dog needs a lot of stimulation and interaction with others, and I had bought right into it.

I'd say Storm enjoys chess, but it's really the chess pieces he seems to enjoy more than anything. He loves hide-and-seek, too. But it's more the hide part he has fun with. I finally settled on an answer: Storm is quite remarkable at retrieving a ball and plays an excellent game of tug-of-war. What was I saying? What was I doing here?

My dog's quality of life is getting better than my own. Besides his own health insurance policy, he has his own dog walker who comes by daily and leaves me a note telling me of his neighborhood exploits and how many times he took a No. 2, apparently vital information for any owner.

Then there is the $150 orthopedic bed that I got talked into, great for the back, I was told. Now that I think about it, my dog, or any other dog, has never taken the day off because of a bad back. Of course, that didn't cross my mind at the time. Not to mention the extra $30 I spent to get his name stitched on the bed - very important, especially because of his high reading level.

Of course, Storm had to have special elevated food bowls. I wouldn't want him to strain his neck hunched over a normal dog bowl while chowing down his naturally enhanced low-fat food with fish oil added for the heart.

This is the same dog who knocks over the trash weekly and embarrassingly sniffs everyone on the block. When I am on vacation, the dog's bill often exceeds my own. He stays at a posh dog resort with his own pet suite and daily playtimes.

Well, this ridiculous life my dog leads is about to end. Back to walking when I say walking, sleeping when I say sleeping. That is, right after we get back from the dog salon where Storm gets his weekly cut and blow-dry and designer nail-trimming.